


Easy Rider

by becbecboom



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - MotoGP, Alternate Universe - Sports, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becbecboom/pseuds/becbecboom
Summary: Harry is a MotoGP motorbike racer, Niall is his chief engineer. Niall has feelings for Harry, but Harry is complicated.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theshiningdistractions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshiningdistractions/gifts).



Harry steers his bike down pit lane, every head turning as he sails past, his long, curly hair billowing gently out the back of his helmet. Niall watches on the televisions in the garage, hearing the crowd react with raucous cheers as they see Harry on the big screens scattered around the circuit. 

And Niall can't help but smile, because Harry deserves every bit of the adulation he receives. The guy's a star, it's undeniable.

He stops the bike outside their marked pit box, leaping off with a nimble flourish, leaving it with the mechanics as he stomps inside, leathers clinging to his body. He pulls off his gloves, tossing them neatly into their designated cubby hole, then unfastens the strap on his helmet, dragging it over his head and shaking out his hair, running one careless hand through it. Niall can see that his skin is flushed, and he's sweating, but he's grinning, ear to ear like always.

Niall checks the timing screen, noting that Harry's already in first place by a huge margin. It's Friday, and it's only first practice, the buildup to Sunday's race just starting, but Harry doesn't like to ever come second. Which is why he's won two world championships and is well on his way to a third. "Smashing it, yeah?" he says, clapping Niall on the shoulder.

"Early days," Niall replies mildly. "Do you not think you might want to, you know, ease into it a bit?"

Harry only laughs at him. "Not my style, babe," he says, giving Niall a cheeky, exaggerated wink, throwing himself down in his chair as the other engineers crowd around him, kneeling and crouching before him like supplicants, listening intently as he starts to describe how the bike's handling.

Niall pauses a moment, taking a deep breath before he joins them, reminding himself that Harry flirts with literally _everyone_ and that it doesn't mean anything. It never means anything, because Niall's been Harry's chief engineer for a few years now, and they're close, they're good friends, _very_ good friends, even, but Harry is as charmingly mercurial as water and Niall is experienced enough to know better.

Not that it helps. 

And Harry's right about one thing, because it's not his style, not at all. Some riders are successful because they're methodical, analytical, able to tease out the best from the bike by careful, logical deduction, but Harry's the polar opposite. He's pure instinct, all bravado, and that might mean he crashes more than some of the other racers, but it also means he wins more. A _lot_ more.

Niall moves in with the other engineers, opening his clipboard and noting down some figures as Harry talks about acceleration and chatter, gesturing wildly to explain some of the bike's reactions.

 _Focus_ , Niall tells himself, but it seems like every weekend it's only getting harder to concentrate, watching Harry's hands flutter like birds as he mimes some kind of braking issue. His fingers are long and elegant, yet to become permanently bent from endless fractures like some of the older riders, and he glances up, catching Niall's stare. He pauses for just a split second, and then the corner of his mouth curls up into the slightest hint of a smile, so brief that Niall can't be sure he's not just imagining it.

Harry looks away, and Niall sighs, going back to his numbers.

 

Harry stays at the circuit in his own motorhome, like all the riders, but unlike most of them, Harry's place is party central all weekend, not just on Sunday night after the race. Some of the other riders complain, insisting on parking their motorhomes as far away from Harry's as possible so the music and general commotion don't keep them awake, but plenty are happy to join in. Harry's reputation as the most debauched rider in the paddock is well-earned, and his parties are legendary for good reason. 

Harry likes Niall to stay with him, always wants to make sure he's having a good time, even if they usually end up discussing the technicalities of the upcoming race, deep in conversation while everyone else gets wasted around them. Niall prefers not to partake of anything harder than a few beers, and while, more often than not, he'll crash out on one of Harry's sofas, he also always books himself a hotel room so that, if necessary, he can get some proper sleep and a little quiet time.

Tonight he's stuck in the garage till late, working with the other engineers on a brake refinement for the bike, exhaustingly fiddly and not so easy to implement. It's way past midnight when they're finally done, and Niall heads straight over to let Harry know they've finished and everything will be okay for tomorrow.

The night air is warm and sweet, and Niall can hear the bass vibrating out from the motorhome way before he can even see it, all lit up, a motley gaggle of people gathered round the door, all in various states of inebriation. Niall pushes his way up the stairs and inside, the music deafening in his ears, the air thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol.

He looks questioningly at one of the crew who's sprawled out in a chair with two intoxicated-looking grid girls in his lap, and the guy gestures towards the closed door of Harry's bedroom.

Niall nods in thanks and walks in without knocking, knowing Harry will only laughingly scold him if he stands on ceremony. He shuts the door behind him before he turns to face the room, squinting into the dim light to see Harry. He's sitting naked on the edge of his bed, and there's a girl, still fully-clothed, kneeling between his legs, her head moving back and forth, Harry's hand tangled tight in her shoulder-length hair.

Years ago Niall might have been embarrassed at the scene, stuttering and looking away, but he's grown used to such sights. This is how Harry lives, and while Niall will occasionally allow himself the indulgence of wishing things were different, he knows that Harry is what he is, and he's learned to accept that. Even if, sometimes, it makes him feel empty inside; hollowed-out and strange.

"We got the braking improvements done," he says. "We'll have to test them tomorrow, but it should give you a few more tenths."

"Cool," Harry replies, nodding, and tugs on the girl's hair, pushing her away from him. She sits back on her heels, turning to glance up at Niall, and _oh_ , because this isn't a girl. It's a boy, an exceptionally slim and pretty boy, a boy who gives Niall a knowing smirk as he wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand.

It's not so unusual, because Harry doesn't discriminate, but Niall still has to resist the urge to take a step back, feeling oddly _exposed_. "Here," he says, offering the printouts of the new data to Harry, who stands up, taking them to read. He frowns to himself, scanning the papers quickly, still perfectly and unashamedly naked, erection jutting out from his body.

The boy remains in place on the floor, but after a minute or two he shuffles closer to Niall, kneeling in front of him, licking his lips as he reaches tentatively for Niall's crotch.

"I don't…" Niall says, suddenly panicked. "I'd rather you didn't…"

The boy pauses for a moment, and Harry looks up. "It's okay," he says, shrugging, like it's nothing. "I don't mind."

"No, I…" starts Niall.

Harry laughs, warmly intimate, and lets the papers fall to the floor, taking a step closer.

"Come on," he says. His eyes are soft, shining with affection and oh god, Niall can't ever resist that look. All these years and he's never actually learned how to say _no_ to Harry, and when it comes down to it, to what really matters, he'll do _anything_ , anything at all. 

And now Harry's hand is on his own still-hard cock, pulling at it, nice and slow. "Come on," he says, again, quieter, gentler, the tone in his words coaxing, like Niall's some skittish animal. "I want to watch you."

Niall can't reply, but this time he doesn't resist as the boy reaches for him, unzipping his trousers and taking out his cock with practised ease, mouth closing hot around Niall, who gasps at the feel of it.

Harry strokes himself, staring intently, and not for a second does he lower his gaze to the boy, completely and utterly focused on Niall's face. His lips are red, slightly parted, tongue wetly visible and Niall is helpless, fucking trapped in it, unable to look away or even close his eyes, weak as the pleasure builds inside him.

He whimpers, close to coming, and Harry nudges the boy with his foot, saying, sharply, "Don't swallow."

And that's all it takes, because Niall's gone, thrusting forward roughly, moaning as he lets go, the release of it sending him so high it's like riding a wave, on and on until he finally comes down, panting breathlessly.

The boy moves back, white smeared around his lips, and Harry's instantly on his knees beside him, licking his face, tongue snaking into the boy's mouth, kissing him, messy and wide, swallowing down Niall's come.

It's hot enough that, spent as he is, Niall still feels arousal pulse faintly through him, a desperate lump in his throat as Harry drags the boy onto the bed, shoving him into position on his hands and knees, pulling down his jeans.

Condoms are scattered over the mattress, and Harry grabs one, biting open the packet and sheathing his cock. "Pass me that lube, will you?" he says to Niall, gesturing at the table where there's a tube waiting ready.

Niall hesitates, but then tosses the tube to Harry, who catches it out of the air, flipping open the lid and then dribbling a generous amount onto himself, smearing some down the crack of the boy's ass. He grabs his cock and pushes in, and Niall can see the boy bracing himself, eyes closing and head falling lower as Harry begins to fuck him.

Niall sighs quietly, then zips up his trousers, bending over to pick up the papers Harry cast aside. "I'm going to go," he says, and Harry waves at him between thrusts, face screwed up in concentration.

"See you tomorrow, then," he says.

"Yeah," Niall replies, but he's already out the door, slipping through the people crowded there. His hotel's just down the street from the circuit, so he walks, taking his time, trying to let his mind go blank, trying not to replay the image of Harry's face as he watched Niall get his cock sucked, the greedy, urgent expression in his eyes as he licked Niall's come out of that boy's mouth.

It's doing his head in, living like this, pining away for some guy like a fucking teenager. And the worst thing is that he knows that Harry adores him, would do almost anything for him, he _knows_ that, but, somehow, it's just not enough.

Niall's pathetic enough to want more, all of it, all of _Harry_ , and he hates himself for it. 

As soon as he's in his hotel room, he strips off his clothes, heading for the shower, running it extra hot. He stands under the stream for a long, long time, thinking, breathing in the thick steam that fills the bathroom. By the time he finally switches off the water, drying himself and throwing on a robe, the decision is made. He should sleep, he knows that, but instead he takes out his laptop, downloading the results from today's practice and going through the numbers, scanning graphs and columns of figures until it feels like his brain's gone numb. None of it means anything, not really.

Niall rubs at his eyes, and when he looks up there's the faintest hint of sunlight peering through the edge of the curtains. 

Another day, and he picks up his phone, scrolling through the contacts until he finds the name.

His success as Harry's engineer means that other teams regularly try to poach him, sometimes attempting to lure him away with amounts of money so utterly insane Niall can't quite believe it, yet he's never for a second entertained the idea of even considering their offers.

But things change.

He types a brief message to one of the team managers he's friendly with. Their outfit isn't quite at the level of competing for the championship, not yet, but they're up and coming, on their way to great things, and perhaps a fresh challenge is exactly what Niall needs. 

For a few minutes, he stares at the words he's typed, knowing this is it, that this is something he won't be able to take back. His jaw is tight with tension, and he can feel a headache coming on, but he steels himself, hits 'send'.

 

The answer comes before he's even made it to the circuit: a firm offer, room for advancement, and a solid but still mildly spectacular salary. Niall reads the message several times, and he still can't quite believe it's real, that he's actually doing this, but he doesn't reply. Not yet. 

"Alright?" Harry playfully slaps Niall's ass as he strides into the garage, and Niall can only try not to wince, especially when Harry goes on, saying, "Good time last night. You should have stayed."

Niall nods, absently, his stomach a hard knot of tension. "Can I talk to you later?" he asks. He glances around, trying to make certain no one's paying _too_ much attention. "Privately?"

Harry gives him a long, thoughtful look in reply, then says, "Sure." He smiles, more reassuringly. "Come see me at lunch, yeah?"

It might be the middle of a race weekend, and not exactly the perfect time for Niall to be announcing he's leaving, but he knows Harry well enough to be aware that he'll be much more upset if he thinks Niall's been hiding the fact that he's moving on for any length of time. And he can't keep lying, pretending everything's okay when it's _not_. 

The morning's practice goes smoothly, with Harry at the top of the timesheets as usual. A couple of the other teams seem to have found some speed overnight, so Harry's only _just_ ahead, merely a few hundredths in it, but it still bodes well for qualifying this afternoon. Niall loses himself in his job, keeping his focus for now.

But at lunch time, he again heads for Harry's motorhome, and his heart might be heavier with every step, but he's certain this is what needs to be done. The current situation is becoming increasingly unbearable, and it's not healthy for either of them, though Niall's not naive enough to pretend any of this is truly for Harry's benefit.

When Niall enters, Harry's sitting at the table, devouring a plate of pasta. He's shucked off the top half of his leathers, letting it hang loose down behind him, his chest bare but for the tattoos that are by now so familiar to Niall he could map them with eyes closed, trace the outlines with a delicate fingertip inside his mind.

Harry nods at his trainer, Dale, who discreetly takes his leave, meaning that it's just the two of them.

"Sit down," says Harry, through a mouthful of food, but Niall remains standing. It feels easier, like this.

"Suzuki have offered me a job," he says, not foolish enough to sugar-coat it.

But Harry only laughs. "Fuckers," he says, shoving another forkful of pasta in his mouth. "Keep trying, don't they? They never learn."

"No," Niall goes on, swallowing hard. "They've offered me a job and I'm going to accept."

Harry's fork clatters down onto his plate, forgotten, and he looks up at Niall, eyes widened in shock. "What?" he says, obviously not comprehending. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm leaving," replies Niall, desperately trying to keep his voice even, not let it betray his emotions. "I'm taking the job."

 _"Why?"_ Harry asks, plaintive as a child, his face so nakedly _hurt_ it makes Niall ache with sadness. 

"I just can't…" Niall shakes his head, taking a deep breath. "I know you know," he says, firmly. "How I feel… about you. I know you know."

Harry stands up, and in a second he's in front of Niall, close enough that Niall's heart is racing, blood hot in his veins. Harry's hands are on his biceps, his grip gentle and warm. "Hey," he says, serious. "Come on, Niall, we can deal with this."

Niall doesn't reply, fighting his immediate instinct twist out of Harry's reach, end this humiliation, because even now, he can't resist.

"If this is what you need," Harry goes on, "then we can work something out, yeah?"

And then he's leaning in, lips soft against Niall's, chastely close-mouthed at first, but then deeper and deeper, tongues moving together, and for one endless, perfect moment Niall allows himself to fall into it, forget everything else and pretend that this is real.

But it's not. "Stop it," Niall snaps, pushing Harry back, spitting out the words, and he knows perfectly well he's being unfair, but _this_ , right now, is what he needs. "You think I'm that easy to fool?" he says, aware he's shouting, that someone will likely overhear, but he doesn't care. "You think you can just give me some sad little pity fuck and it'll all be okay and I'll stay?"

"No! God, no." Harry looks positively wounded at the very suggestion.

"Bullshit," says Niall. He holds up his hands, disgusted, but the only person he's angry at is himself. "I'm done," he says. "We're fucking done, Harry." He turns, walking out, slamming the door behind him, ignoring the pointedly accusing gaze of Dale, who's waiting outside, hovering.

 

Later, in the garage, they speak only as much as is necessary, but they're both professional enough to not let anything interfere with the racing. Qualifying goes well, with Harry easily on pole, and if he's riding a little more aggressively than normal, taking risks that are right on the edge, even for him, well, Niall tells himself, that's just Harry being Harry. Nothing so out of the ordinary.

That night, Niall goes straight back to his hotel room, falling straight into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

On Sunday afternoon, Niall stands in the garage with the rest of the crew, staring up at the screens above them, the tension in the air almost palpable. The grid has been cleared, the race about to begin, and Niall grits his teeth, jaw clenched, waiting for the lights to go out.

Harry gets a bad start, falling a down place into second, behind Lorenzo, his main championship rival and Niall frowns, but he knows that this is just the beginning of a long race, and Harry can easily come back. Niall rocks back and forth on his feet, sucking in a breath as he tries to stay patient, waiting for Harry's move, and it's only a few laps before it comes.

He dives under Lorenzo's bike as he turns into the corner, and it's a courageously daring attempt, bold and brilliant, and for a second it looks like he's going to pull it off. Niall squeezes his hands into fists, white-knuckled, muttering _come on, come on, come on,_ but then, at the last possible moment Lorenzo's bike clips Harry's back wheel and he's down, hitting the tarmac sideways with some force and sliding off the track into the gravel trap at speed.

"Fuck," the crew chorus, various curses in various languages echoing through the box. The angle of the camera means it's impossible to see where Harry ends up, and before they can switch shots, there's a replay of the accident. Niall assesses the slow motion footage anxiously, and yeah, Harry goes down right on to his shoulder, with a nastily heavy impact. _Shit_ , Niall thinks, waiting for the cut back to the live feed, and when it comes, Harry's already on his feet, carefully cradling his right arm in his left. 

Niall's seen enough to know that's either a dislocated shoulder or a broken collarbone, and either could be bad enough that Harry will miss the next race and put the championship at risk. Harry's tough, Niall knows, but no one is unbreakable. He inhales deeply, steadying himself.

If this had happened yesterday, during practice or qualifying, he'd be immediately hustling to for the bike to be brought back to the garage as soon as possible, get straight on with directing its urgent repair, but with Harry out of the race, the weekend is over.

Everyone turns away from the screens, some with melodramatic sighs, all uninterested in the rest of the race. A few of the mechanics make moves to start packing up, wheeling out some of the travelling crates for the equipment from the back of the garage.

But Niall still watches, staring intently as Harry's shown being ushered into the medical car, clearly wincing as one of the paramedics gently guides him, closing the door behind him. He'll be taken straight to the Clinica Mobile, the onsite medical facilities set up at every race, and Niall knows they'll take good care of him, but that doesn't do much to quell his fears.

He gives a few orders to the crew, telling them to text him when the bike arrives back, and walks away.

 

Harry's still being treated when Niall arrives at the Clinica, but after what feels like an eternity, the race doctor finally emerges, giving Niall a thumbs up. "Dislocation," he says. "All fixed." Niall feels relief rush over him like water, an invisible weight lifted from his shoulders.

"Can I…?" He gestures, and the doctor nods, waving him in.

Harry's lying on a bed in a small, white room that smells of sweat and disinfectant, dressed in only his underwear. His face is pale, eyes dark in contrast, and his arm is in a sling, pressed tight against his chest. "Hey," Niall says, and he smiles weakly in reply. "How is it?" 

"All right," says Harry. "Bit nasty getting it back in, but they think there's no tendon damage, so a few days' rest and I'll be right."

"That's good." Niall hesitates for a few seconds, then sits carefully down on the end of the bed.

"I didn't…" Harry starts, but his voice trails away. He looks so _young_ like this, and maybe they're both still just kids, unable to grow up enough to get out of their own way and see what's right in front of them.

"Didn't what?" Niall asks.

Harry looks at him. "I wasn't trying to fuck you just so you'd stay."

"I know you weren't," says Niall. "I'm sorry I said that, I was just upset." Harry might be many things, but he's not calculating or manipulative, not like that. 

"I'm sorry too," Harry says.

"No need." Niall shrugs, and he means it. There's nothing to apologize for. 

Harry sits up slightly, hissing in a sharp breath. "And I think you should take that job."

"Why?"

"Because I want to try," Harry states, in that voice Niall knows there's no arguing with. But he's still not sure exactly what Harry means.

"Try what?"

_"Us."_

Niall's heart is all at once racing, but he says, slowly, "You always said you don't do relationships."

"Just because I never have doesn't mean I never can."

"Really?"

"Really."

But Niall has to ask, saying, "Why _now?"_

And it's obvious Harry would shrug, but he can't, so instead he sits there for a minute, face wanly sheepish until he says, "I've been thinking about it for a while now, and when you said you were leaving…"

"Why didn't you say anything?" Niall says, hardly able to to believe it.

"You know I'm not good at that stuff."

"Yeah, I do know that."

"I wanted to say something, but..." Harry shakes his head, then goes on, more firmly. "I'm saying something _now."_

"And you're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"It won't be easy," Niall warns.

But Harry just grins at him. "Fuck easy," he says. "I don't do easy."

Which is the truth, and maybe it's just the accident or the adrenaline or the painkillers, and maybe it will all crash and burn and be over before it even starts, but right now, Niall can't think of a single reason to say _no_.

"Fine," he says, shrugging, like it's nothing, but he knows he's not fooling anyone. "We can try, if that's what you want."

"Cool," Harry replies, raising his eyebrows cheekily, giving Niall as much of a dirty leer as he seems to be able to muster under the circumstances, and Niall has to roll his eyes.

"You're such a dick," he says, and Harry's laughing.

They both are.

 

A week or so later, and they're at dinner, in some high end restaurant. It's not their usual style, dressed up fancy and sipping drinks politely, but Harry has insisted that if they're going to be officially dating, then they should actually go on an official _date_ to start things off.

And it's not so terrible, seeing Harry in a suit, all cleaned up with his hair slicked back and eyes bright. The food is amazing, and the conversation flows easily. Because it's the strangest thing, but they've been here for a couple of hours now, and, Niall suddenly realises, they haven't once talked about motor bikes or racing. It's nice, he thinks, smiling, and Harry's staring at him.

"What?" Niall asks, and Harry smiles back, dipping his gaze a little, looking up at Niall through impossibly long eyelashes.

"You just look happy," says Harry. "I don't know how long it's been since I've seen you this happy."

And Niall doesn't know what to say, but he can feel himself blushing.

Harry reaches across the table and takes Niall's hand in both of his own, holding it like something fragile and rare, and the gesture is so strangely, innocently romantic that it makes Niall feel dizzy.

"Come home with me," Harry says, his voice low, his eyes alight with something so much more than desire, and what can Niall say but _yes_ , over and over.

 

The next morning, Niall wakes to the sound of Harry snoring softly beside him, sprawled out on tangled white sheets, gangly limbs askew, one arm thrown possessively over Niall's chest. Niall rolls carefully onto his side, sliding out from under Harry's embrace, and sighs contentedly.

"Hey," he whispers, almost to himself, not sure if he wants Harry to wake or if he'd rather just lie here as long as he can, all day, maybe, or perhaps forever.

But Harry stirs, eyes opening into a lazy squint, body stretching, lithe and elastic as a cat. "Morning," he replies, happily. 

"Okay?" Niall asks.

Harry nods, turning over to face Niall. "So," he says, drawing out the word. "That was fun." He yawns, wide and lazy before he adds, "Last night, I mean."

"Not bad," replies Niall, drily.

Harry laughs, running his fingers through Niall's hair, smoothing it back off his forehead with a languidly soothing motion. Niall leans into the touch with a small, satisfied noise, relaxing. 

"Didn't you say this wouldn't be easy?" Harry says, his tone teasing. "Seems pretty easy so far."

"I don't know." Niall slides one hand downward, reaching for Harry's morning erection "Seems maybe kind of hard to me." 

Harry gasps, quick and sharp, and god, Niall can hardly bear it, because he's so beautiful like this, biting down on his bottom lip as Niall's fingers curl around him. He begins to moan, lying back and dragging Niall over on top of him, their mouths meeting urgently, desperate and unguarded. 

"I think," Harry says, breathless between kisses, "that I'm going to like this."

And Niall knows exactly what he means, and it's everything. "Yeah," he agrees, the words lost against Harry's skin. "Me too."


End file.
